Tale of the Nine Tailed—An urban‑fantasy romance where a centuries‑old fox spirit risks everything to reclaim a love stolen by fate
Introduction
The first time Lee Yeon steps through the rain with a crimson umbrella, it feels like the city itself holds its breath. I remember thinking: what if the monsters we’re most afraid of are really just the parts of us that loved too hard and lost too much? Tale of the Nine Tailed doesn’t ask for passive viewing; it asks for your pulse, your memories, your quiet ache for the person you once were. As a TV producer chases urban legends and a gumiho (nine‑tailed fox) hunts wayward spirits, we end up tracking our own what‑ifs—regrets that glow like tail lights on a wet highway. Have you ever felt pulled by a past life you can’t quite name, yet it colors everything you do now? That is the spell this drama casts, and it never lets go.
Overview
Title: Tale of the Nine Tailed (구미호뎐)
Year: 2020.
Genre: Urban fantasy, romance, thriller, mythological drama
Main Cast: Lee Dong‑wook, Jo Bo‑ah, Kim Bum, Kim Yong‑ji, Hwang Hee, Kim Jung‑nan, Lee Tae‑ri
Episodes: 16.
Runtime: 65–70 minutes per episode.
Streaming Platform: Netflix; Viki.
Overall Story
The story opens with Lee Yeon, once the mountain spirit who guarded Korea’s ridges and waterways, now working as a sleek, suited enforcer in modern Seoul. His job is to capture supernatural beings who violate the balance between worlds, reporting to Taluipa, the razor‑witted head of the Afterlife Immigration Office. Yeon is formidable, but his heart is already spoken for: he has waited centuries for the reincarnation of his first love, a human woman who died to stop a serpent deity called the Imoogi. Meanwhile, TV producer Nam Ji‑ah, who survived a mysterious car crash in 1999 that claimed her parents, chases urban legends for her show—and keeps seeing the same man from the night of the accident. When Ji‑ah and Yeon collide during an on‑air investigation, she recognizes him with the kind of certainty logic can’t explain. Their recognition is the spark; the city, its myths, and every old debt are the tinder.
As Yeon tries to keep his distance, Ji‑ah pushes closer, her producer instincts sharpened by the ache of a child who never got answers. Each case they touch—ghost brides, spirit‑ridden artifacts, hungry house gods—peels back a layer of the city’s collective memory and Ji‑ah’s personal one. The show roots these encounters in Korean folklore, acknowledging how stories once told around braziers now haunt neon alleys and subway tunnels. Have you ever noticed how modern life carries old fears under new names? The drama makes room for that truth, grounding spectral thrills in the quiet rituals of everyday Seoul—offerings at roadside shrines, the etiquette of funerals, the weight of family photos. And under it all, a question hums: what did the Imoogi take from them on that rainy night?
Yeon’s half‑brother Lee Rang emerges like a wound that never healed: half‑human, half‑gumiho, all prickly pride. Abandoned in his eyes when Yeon chose a mortal woman centuries ago, Rang wears cruelty like armor—conning mortals, testing Yeon’s patience, protecting only the few he claims as his. He rescues a young gumiho named Yoo‑ri from human traffickers, building an odd little family with her and a stray boy who sees him as a hero. But even his mischief has purpose: Rang wants Yeon to admit that love cost them everything. Watching the brothers circle each other—anger, tenderness, jealousy, longing—feels like eavesdropping on two hearts that forgot how to beat in sync. Have you ever loved someone so much you’d rather fight them than lose them?
When Ji‑ah discovers she is the reincarnation of Ah‑eum—Yeon’s lost love—her life becomes the battleground the Imoogi has been waiting for. The serpent god slithers back into the world through borrowed bodies, eyeing Ji‑ah as the perfect vessel. He is not merely a villain; he is hunger refined into strategy, finding human fault lines—greed, fear, the desire to rewrite fate—and prying them open. The Afterlife’s bureaucracy is brisk but binding: rules about reincarnation, contracts inked in blood, ledgers of sins older than nations. It’s strangely comforting, like cloud security for the soul—until a single breach threatens to spill between worlds and erase what love rebuilt. Have you ever realized the system that kept you safe can’t protect the one thing you can’t lose?
The investigation into Ji‑ah’s parents’ disappearance becomes the spine of the middle chapters. Clues trickle in: a driver who doesn’t remember driving, photographs that don’t age, a fox bead glinting like a lighthouse through storms of grief. Yeon tries to shoulder the danger alone, offering Ji‑ah token comforts while hiding the fact that her body is the Imoogi’s endgame. Ji‑ah refuses to be a bystander; she follows threads into abandoned tunnels, forgotten villages, and the corners of Yeon’s past he’d rather keep shuttered. There, she learns that Ah‑eum once made a choice—to die as herself rather than live as a vessel—asking Yeon to find her again in another lifetime. That request, returned to sender across centuries, is the show’s heartbeat.
Rang’s petty torments shift into fearful bargains as he senses the Imoogi’s reach. He tests everyone’s loyalties, even his own, trying to prove that love is a trap while building a home without meaning to. Yoo‑ri’s devotion, Shin‑joo’s (Yeon’s right‑hand man) patient kindness, and the boy’s hero worship chip away at Rang’s cynicism. The drama treats found family as sacred as blood, showing how ramen dinners and inside jokes can become armor against the dark. Yet the Imoogi weaponizes love, too—offering Ji‑ah her parents back, offering Yeon Ji‑ah’s safety, offering Rang a world where he is never left. Every temptation is a mirror held up to a wound. Have you ever had to choose between the life you want and the person who taught you how to want at all?
The Imoogi escalates: markets sicken, dreams spoil, and a plague of misfortune slides over the city like a second skin. Taluipa’s ledger can’t balance what’s coming; even the gatekeeper husband at her side looks smaller against the tide. Yeon crafts a plan that tastes like old fear—transfer the Imoogi into himself, or lure it into Ji‑ah and pull it out at the edge of the underworld’s river. Ji‑ah counters with a braver, more terrifying plan: take back her agency and dare the serpent to face a woman who already chose herself once. Their love scenes are threaded with strategy, every kiss a contingency, every promise an escape clause. This is romance the way grown‑ups live it—where devotion isn’t always pretty, but it’s always chosen.
In one of the drama’s most riveting stretches, Yeon returns to the past to remember the exact shape of losing Ah‑eum and to understand what the Imoogi fears. The flashbacks are not nostalgia; they’re evidence, gathering the truth that love didn’t ruin him—cowardice did. Coming back to the present, Yeon stops treating Ji‑ah like a relic to guard and starts treating her like a partner. Their teamwork hums: producer instincts, fox cunning, and the steady help of friends who are ready to risk their lives because found family is not just a vibe—it’s a vow. Have you ever felt the relief of being seen not as something to protect, but as someone to stand beside?
The finale is a tidal pull of sacrifice and return. Yeon drags the Imoogi down into the underworld’s river, letting himself be unmade so Ji‑ah can keep the future they chose. Ji‑ah bargains with the rules until pleading becomes prayer; Taluipa fights the system she runs, calling in debts older than mountains. And Rang—oh, Rang—offers what’s left of his stolen lifespan so his brother can live again, proving that the fiercest love is sometimes a hand letting go. It’s devastating and strangely healing: grief breaks and sets, and in that tender cast, the brothers finally understand each other. When Yeon steps back into the rain with that red umbrella, human and fallible, you can feel the world exhale.
By the last scenes, the story answers its first question: monsters are not the ones with fangs; they’re the wounds we refuse to examine. Ji‑ah and Yeon move forward not as legend and lover, but as two people who know exactly what it costs to choose each other. In a culture where family lines and ancestral rites anchor identity, the series argues that chosen family, too, deserves an altar. It even nudges practical thoughts—how sudden loss shatters a household, the paperwork, the awful quiet that makes you look up life insurance quotes you never wanted to research. And it taps the paranoia of modern life—the Imoogi’s body‑snatching schemes feel like a mythic form of identity theft protection, a reminder that what makes you you is worth guarding. Have you ever wanted a show to hold your fears, name them, and then hand you back a braver heart?
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 A late‑night car ride turns into a supernatural foot chase when Ji‑ah lures a suspected gumiho on camera and Yeon arrives to finish the job, only to realize she is the girl he once saved on a rain‑soaked highway. The scene establishes her courage and his terrifying grace, plus the motif of rain as the story’s truth serum. Their first conversation is a duel—producer vs. predator—but the eye contact says they’ve already lost. The city feels alive: neon puddles, alley cats, folklore hiding in plain sight. By the end, she has evidence of the impossible, and he has the one thing he swore he would never risk again. Have you ever felt destiny step into your frame?
Episode 4 A cursed wedding dress wraps itself around brides like a promise that turns predator, pulling Ji‑ah into a case that tastes like her own unresolved grief. Yeon is competent but careful, while Ji‑ah insists on stepping into the trap to understand it from the inside. The rescue is cinematic—lace, blood, and the snap of scissors—but the aftermath is the real prize: Yeon admits he can’t keep pretending she’s just another human. This is where the show marries monster‑of‑the‑week thrills to character stakes. The horror isn’t just spectacle; it’s biography. And the dress becomes a metaphor for vows that can strangle if they’re not freely chosen.
Episode 7 Rang steals the hour for himself, orchestrating chaos to force Yeon to admit his priorities. In the middle of the mess, we glimpse Rang feeding a stray and buying a cheap toy for a boy who calls him “uncle,” cracking his armor with accidental tenderness. Yoo‑ri steadies him with a look that says, “You’re better than your bitterness.” The episode reframes the “villain” as an abandoned child still sitting on a mountain, waiting. When he snarls, it sounds like “don’t leave me” in another language. Have you ever used anger to keep love from getting too close?
Episode 10 Yeon and Ji‑ah travel into memory to confront the original sin of their love story: Ah‑eum’s choice to die herself rather than live possessed by the Imoogi. The past isn’t an elegy; it’s a lesson plan, and both of them take notes. Back in the present, their strategy changes—they stop being reactive and set the terms. The writers lace the sequence with Joseon‑era aesthetics and the old etiquette of gods and mortals, grounding the fantasy in Korea’s cultural spine. When they return, their partnership has edges, purpose, and a shared vocabulary for sacrifice. It’s the episode where the romance graduates from yearning to resolve.
Episode 14 The city sours under the Imoogi’s curse—markets empty, faces gray, even streetlights feel tired. Taluipa, who has been all rules and sharp angles, suddenly looks small beside a ledger that can’t protect the ones she loves. Yeon’s plan becomes an act of trust: he shares everything with Ji‑ah and their circle, redistributing the risk. The team dinner the night before the final hunt is warm, ordinary, almost sacred—ramen steam like incense over people who chose each other. “A family,” the episode whispers, “is any table where you can finally put your sword down.” That gentleness makes the coming storm hit even harder.
Episode 16 At the river between worlds, Yeon and the Imoogi become a single silhouette struggling against a current of fate, and Ji‑ah refuses to be reduced to a damsel or a vessel. The victory costs them more than blood; it takes futures and time, and then Rang quietly lays his own on the altar so Yeon can come back. The reunion in the rain is a love letter to every viewer who waited with Ji‑ah—umbrella, breath held, hope ridiculous and stubborn. Yeon returns changed: human, heavy with feeling, and finally honest about how much he needs the people at his side. The last images linger like a promise kept.
Momorable Lines
“Even a god chooses, and today I choose you.” – Lee Yeon, Episode 4 Said as he drops the pretense of indifference, it marks the pivot from protector to partner. The line collapses the distance between deity and human and reframes love as an active verb, not a weakness. It also signals to Rang and the Afterlife that Yeon’s loyalties have a face and a name. From here on, every plan he makes is drawn around Ji‑ah’s silhouette.
“I’m not a legend. I’m a person who was left behind.” – Nam Ji‑ah, Episode 6 She says this after another dead‑end clue about her parents, when the world keeps treating her as a curiosity rather than a daughter grieving. It’s a demand for dignity in a story obsessed with gods and monsters, reminding us that human loss is the real horror. The line deepens her relationship with Yeon—he stops coddling her and starts listening. It also nudges viewers to consider the practical fallout of tragedy, the endless forms and lonely nights that make people google life insurance quotes just to feel in control again.
“If love is a trap, then let me be caught where you can find me.” – Lee Rang, Episode 9 Rang snarls this half to Yoo‑ri, half to himself, after the boy he protects calls him “family.” The bravado cracks and shows us a man bargaining with hope. It reframes his cruelty as self‑defense and primes his later sacrifice as something inevitable. From this moment, every cruel smile looks like a rehearsal for letting go.
“Rules exist so the living can sleep.” – Taluipa, Episode 12 Delivered while she weighs the cost of bending the Afterlife’s laws, it’s the closest the show gets to a mission statement. The line adds moral texture: bureaucracy isn’t just cold paperwork; it’s the fence that keeps chaos out—until love asks for a gate. It also mirrors the modern anxiety of breaches and stolen identities, the way myths echo our need for identity theft protection in a world where names and faces can be hijacked. When she finally breaks her own rules, we feel how radical that choice is.
“Fate didn’t take you from me—I handed you over to it.” – Lee Yeon, Episode 15 He confesses this to Ji‑ah before the final plan, admitting that fear masquerading as nobility cost him centuries. The line is self‑indictment and absolution, turning their romance from destiny‑driven to decision‑driven. It also articulates the show’s thesis: courage is not killing monsters; it’s taking responsibility for the stories we write with our choices. And if you’ve ever needed a drama to make you braver about choosing love—even when it’s terrifying—this is the moment that tells you to hit play tonight.
Why It's Special
The moment Tale of the Nine Tailed opens, you can feel the show leaning in close, like an urban legend being whispered on a rainy night. A centuries-old gumiho walks the neon alleys of modern Seoul, and a brave TV producer points her camera at the unseen. That’s the heartbeat here: wonder meeting grief, myth colliding with everyday life. If you’re ready to jump in, Season 1 is streaming on Netflix and also on Viki, while the follow‑up Tale of the Nine Tailed 1938 streams on Prime Video—so it’s easy to start the story and keep going when you’re hooked. Have you ever felt this way—craving a fantasy that still understands your real‑world heart?
What makes this drama special is how it treats folklore like memory. The gumiho legend isn’t a gimmick; it’s a map of love, regret, and promises kept across lifetimes. The show invites you to wander that map, from bustling crosswalks to half-lit tunnels, until the supernatural feels as ordinary as the city bus.
It’s also a romance that doesn’t rush you. The leads are drawn together not by convenience, but by echoes—tiny recognitions that grow into something fierce and fated. Each reunion feels earned; each separation cuts clean. The emotional tone swings from mischievous banter to aching confession, and the writing trusts you to sit with both.
Then there’s the bromance that sneaks up on you. Sibling loyalty and betrayal twine like ivy, and the show lets their rivalry breathe—funny one minute, devastating the next. When the brothers clash, it’s not just spectacle; it’s a history lesson in wounds, pride, and the difficult art of forgiveness.
Genre-wise, Tale of the Nine Tailed is a shape‑shifter. One episode plays like a ghost story, the next like a heist, the next like a date-night movie. Yet the tone stays cohesive because the direction is sure‑handed: action scenes are kinetic but readable, horror beats are eerie without gore, and quiet moments are framed like postcards you’ll want to keep.
Visually, this world is sumptuous. Jackets snap in the wind. Lanterns glow like memories. Water glitters with things you can’t quite see. The camera loves reflections—windows, puddles, mirrors—because this is a show about seeing yourself in another time, another life, another person.
And beneath the spectacle is a simple question: what would you risk to keep a promise? The series answers with courage but not perfection, showing choices that cost something. That’s why the last shots of certain episodes linger—you’re not just thrilled; you’re moved to ask what you’d do if the past knocked on your door tonight.
Popularity & Reception
When it first aired in late 2020, Tale of the Nine Tailed built a steady, vocal fandom. Its finale drew strong cable numbers in Korea, closing at an average nationwide rating near 5.8%—a sign that the show’s blend of romance, action, and folklore resonated beyond niche fantasy circles. Viewers praised the way it balanced myth with modern tenderness, and word-of-mouth carried it well past its final week.
The franchise’s momentum accelerated with Tale of the Nine Tailed 1938. The sequel premiered in May 2023 to ratings that surpassed Season 1’s all‑time high and then finished on a series peak of 8.0%, topping its time slot across cable channels. That rare “premiere high, finale higher” trajectory captured how returning fans—and new ones—showed up week after week.
Internationally, access mattered. With Season 1 available on global platforms and the sequel streaming on Prime Video in many regions, the show found a wider audience fast; weekly episodes became weekend rituals for fans who loved reacting in real time. Social timelines filled with GIFs of fox-fire fights and sweet sibling banter, turning the series into a cross‑border comfort watch.
Critics were on board, too. Outlets highlighted how 1938 re‑energized the concept—lighter, campier, and more action‑forward—without losing the soulful core that made the original click. Reviews singled out the playful tone, punchy set pieces, and a bromance that felt both bigger and warmer the second time around.
Recognition followed. Consumer-voted honors in Korea spotlighted the franchise’s lead performers, a nod to how star power and storytelling fused into one of the year’s most talked‑about genre shows. Add in year‑end “best of” lists that called 1938 a standout of 2023, and you get a picture of a series that didn’t just return—it leveled up.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Dong‑wook anchors the story as Lee Yeon, a former mountain spirit whose poise hides centuries of longing. He plays Yeon with that rare mix of elegance and mischief—smiling with his eyes one scene, flattening a room with a stare the next. The result is a hero who feels ancient without being aloof, tender without losing edge. When Yeon reaches for a hand across lifetimes, you believe he’s carried that touch through storms you’ll never see.
What’s striking is how he modulates energy between seasons. In Season 1, his stillness carries grief; by 1938, he moves like a fox who’s found his feet again—lighter, quicker, almost playful, especially when sparring with his brother. The physicality is deliberate: fights feel like conversations, full of taunts, memories, and unspoken apologies.
Jo Bo‑ah brings Nam Ji‑ah to life with steel and warmth. As a producer who chases urban legends for a living, she sells curiosity as a form of courage—asking questions not because she’s reckless but because truth matters. Her chemistry with Yeon is both immediate and patient; the show trusts her to drive scenes with brains and heart, and she rewards that trust every time she turns a clue into a revelation.
Jo also shoulders the story’s reincarnation thread with grace. When the past brushes the present, her face does the storytelling—a flicker of recognition, a smile cut with fear. It’s beautiful, grounded work that lets the fantasy land somewhere human: in breath, in eye contact, in the choice to stay.
Kim Bum, as Lee Rang, is the show’s rogue sunbeam—dangerous, dazzling, and impossible not to watch. He starts as a swaggering antagonist, someone who weaponizes charm because it’s safer than vulnerability. You can feel the years of resentment knotted under every quip, and that knot slowly loosens as the series peels him open.
By the time we reach the events around 1938, Rang’s arc becomes a study in stubborn love. Kim Bum leans into the contradictions—selfish yet sacrificial, mocking yet fiercely loyal—so that every smile looks like a dare and every apology feels earned. His scenes with Yeon are the franchise’s beating heart.
Kim Yong‑ji gives Yoo‑ri a feral grace that’s instantly captivating. She embodies the stray-cat energy of someone who’s learned to survive by pretending not to care, and then shows how care keeps breaking through anyway. The show lets her be sharp, funny, and frightening in turns, which makes her small gestures of kindness land like thunder.
As Yoo‑ri’s world widens, Kim Yong‑ji plays discovery with delicate precision—curiosity softening into trust, suspicion into chosen family. In a story about immortal promises, her arc argues for something humbler and just as brave: letting yourself be loved without a contract from fate.
Behind the camera, director Kang Shin‑hyo (with Jo Nam‑hyung) and writer Han Woo‑ri steer a tricky ship. They build a modern mythos with rules that feel intuitive, then cleverly remix it in the 1938 chapter—dialing up color, comedy, and combat while keeping the emotional spine intact. It’s the same myth, new music, and the baton pass from one season’s tone to the other feels intentional rather than trendy.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve been craving a fantasy that hugs your heart as tightly as it thrills your senses, Tale of the Nine Tailed is the weekend escape you deserve. Start with Season 1 on Netflix (or Viki) and glide into 1938 on Prime Video; whether you’re watching via online streaming on the go or settling in front of your 4K HDR TV at home, this world is built to sweep you away. Let the romance breathe, laugh at the bickering brothers, and see if the last five minutes of your favorite episode don’t make you hold your breath. And if your streaming subscription has been waiting for a show that feels both fresh and familiar, this is the one.
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